<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Letter Written by a Dead Man by Lenami</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26600431">Letter Written by a Dead Man</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenami/pseuds/Lenami'>Lenami</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alan knew Basil here, Alcohol, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Letters, M/M, Melancholy, Memories, Poor Alan, i hope so, seeing things he shouldn't have, still a little bit of fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:41:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,422</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26600431</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenami/pseuds/Lenami</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Alan saved two of Basil’s belongings, took it to his home, not able to bring himself to abandon it at Dorian’s hellish house and let that place swallow last memory of the painter. One of them was Basil’s glove, too thin for this weather-it looked more fit for opera, but it was old and unused, crumpled, stuck into the pocket. <br/>Inside of his jacket, he found something much more meaningful: a letter. It was unsealed; not ready to send yet- or maybe it was never meant to be read. Writing on envelope simply read “For Harry”, the name underlined twice, drawing his attention to neat, tight letters. <br/>.<br/>.<br/>.<br/>Alan Campbell remembers Basil Hallward.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alan Campbell/Dorian Gray, Basil Hallward/Henry Wotton, mentioned few times</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Letter Written by a Dead Man</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I always thought that Alan could actually know Basil, as they were both Dorian's friends. <br/>(on the other hand, it makes all of this worse, please someone save both of them)<br/>Anyway, please enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Contrary to what Dorian believed, Alan did know Basil Hallward. New wave of disgust washed over him when he saw his lifeless body stashed in the dusty attic. On the wall hung horrid painting, looking at Basil’s body with disgusting mockery of a smile, and Alan, suddenly taken by the urge to protect painter from its cruel eyes, lifted heavy fabric from the floor and covered it. It felt like shutting door in the face of unwanted visitor. </p>
<p>He sighed heavily. Specks of the dust in the air shone in the pink and gold light of the morning, mocking him with its beauty. He looked out of the window to see sun peaking shyly between the buildings and he suddenly felt like crying, lump in his throat.</p>
<p>“Poor Basil.” He whispered, voice almost breaking, not sure if it was directed more to himself or to the painter - whenever he really was at the moment.</p>
<p><em>Poor Alan, </em>it came to his mind, somewhat with irony, but he brushed the thought away, shaking his head. <em>I don’t get to pity myself right now. </em></p>
<p>He gently dragged body down to lay it on the floor. Painter’s face seemed strangely peaceful- as much as peaceful can look someone who have been murdered. Alan closed Basil’s eyes to give the man some dignity back and to free himself from the empty stare of his dark eyes.</p>
<p>He wasn’t a religious man, but he murmured hushed prayer over the corpse- suddenly desperate, he felt the need to make things right, just a little.</p>
<p>“I am so sorry.” His words were almost inaudible. Tracing his fingers along the edge of Basil’s collar, he froze, stilled in the moment, his dark head hanging low, musing on the absurd and ugliness of what he was about to do. Reluctantly, he touched skin of Basil’s wrist; he had nice hands, with long, paint-stained fingers.</p>
<p><em>Dorian did this, his beautiful hands. </em>He shivered, remembering those hands on his skin, in his hair, underneath his shirt. <em>Dorian’s poisonous kisses tasted like honey.</em></p>
<p>After a second- a minute maybe, or even longer; who knew how long, he was torn from grim thoughts by a loud sound coming from the window. Anxiously, he looked out to identify source of the noise, but it was only a drunkard stumbling through street after a night of drinking.</p>
<p><em>I have to get this over with. </em>He turned to the things brought here from his lab and felt his stomach flip unpleasantly. <em>I am going to be sick.</em></p>
<p>It was anguish.</p>
<p>His fingers trembled as he removed Basil’s jacket, tears running down his cheeks when acidic smell filled the air.</p>
<p>But it was done in few hours.</p>
<p>It was done.</p>
<p>Throwing the lab utensils back into the bag without much care for safety, his eyes suddenly wandered back to the pile of Basil’s clothing and he felt that there was something else he forgot about, that he overlooked.</p>
<p><em>I need to make a speech, </em>he realised, feeling strange kind of dizziness. He slumped back to the floor, all of his strength gone.</p>
<p>
  <em>I am an only guest at his funeral after all. </em>
</p>
<p>He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.</p>
<p>
  <em>What do I have to say about him? </em>
</p>
<p>Alan thought about Basil Hallward- not the painter, not the artist, but the person. What could he say?  They were briefly introduced to each other at a party- Alan remembered that particular party for being extremely dull event; Dorian was away from London at the time and Alan, who was, simply put, not a social person, moped around the corners, clutching desperately onto his champagne glass. Before he could escape, their host caught him and took on an introducing tour. It was nothing special- exchange of nods and awkward handshake while the host piped cheerfully about their mutual friend. Basil Hallward smiled upon hearing Dorian’s name, somewhat sadly.</p>
<p>But Alan knew something he shouldn’t know- thing overheard in the darkness of the room he shouldn’t have found himself in, unnoticed.</p>
<p>
  <em>He loosened knot of the neckcloth with relief, finally putting the glass of champagne down. The room he hid in was almost completely filled with darkness, faint light coming from the gap between the door and frame, spilling inside with distant noises of party; laugher and music. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Alan took a sip of the alcohol and grimaced- all the bubbles were gone. Heavy sigh escaped from between his lips as he sat down on the soft carpet, back against the wall. He could barely see there, but he took out music score he got from Dorian- it was wrinkled from days spend inside of his jacket. Dorian wouldn’t like that, but Alan couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment, they fought all the time lately. After each fight, in few days, Dorian would visit him like nothing happened, smile on beautiful face, repeating: “You must play for me, Al, you must! I can’t live a week without hearing you play.”. And when he kissed Alan, everything would be forgotten already. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Alan rubbed his temples, staring blankly at the golden light coming from the hallway when he heard rushed steps and two voices- men if he heard correctly. Careless laugh echoed in the empty hallway and then a second voice said:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Oh, be quiet already! Someone could hear.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It sounded mildly irritated with just a bit of fondness. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Then, the door opened and two dark figures stepped into the room. Alan froze, not sure if he should make his presence known to them, but the idea of explaining why exactly was he sitting alone in dark room was quite unappealing. So, he sat still in the dark corner, clutching the score in his hands. </em>
</p>
<p><em>“I only came because I was convinced Dorian would come.” Alan finally recognized the voice; it seemed suspiciously familiar from the start. It was Wotton</em>; <em>he was a member of Dorian’s strange circle of friends, not one of the unsavoury ones, but Wotton always said unsavoury things anyway. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Lord Henry sat on edge of the table, hunched slightly, but his silhouette still remained graceful- lean, full of straight lines. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Alan peaked curiously at them from where he sat, somewhat unhealthy curiosity arising in him. Second man’s dark hair and crooked smile unmistakeably belonged to Basil Hallward, painter and Dorian’s friend he met that day. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“You always accuse me of being boring, but here you are, Harry, always rambling about the same thing. Now tell me, isn’t that a bit-” He paused, coming closer to Wotton, almost standing between his legs. “Besides, you were late more than forty minutes, which means you had to put up with our host for forty minutes less than me.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Don’t pretend you didn’t come here because of Dorian either.” Henry scoffed, but without much bite. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Hallward paved over his words. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I can’t believe there were times when it was only two of us.” He said and it seemed like he moved even closer- there just few inches between men’s faces. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Wotton suddenly fell silent, leaning back a bit and titling his head, lips stretched into lazy smile.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“So it is like that”, it came to Alan’s mind. “Shouldn’t I make my presence known now- before it is too late-”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But he didn’t do anything, still sick with curiosity. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I remember.” Henry’s voice was quiet. There was unfamiliar note in it, between fondness and weariness. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Basil smiled back at him, somewhat sadly.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Aren’t you bored, Harry?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Wotton waited few seconds before answering, then he leaned in, saying right into Basil’s lips:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I am.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Without waiting for response, he took painter’s face between his hands and kissed him. Basil relaxed into the touch and steadied himself on the table, putting his other hand over Henry’s. Weird gentleness of the gesture seemed somehow familiar to Alan.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“God, I hope they won’t go all the way here.” He thought sourly, but the kiss didn’t seem too passionate or hurried.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Just like the old times-” Hallward whispered, amused. “Kissing at parties-”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Good Lord, don’t remind me how old I am.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Both of them laughed breathlessly and Wotton suddenly lost his balance, almost falling back onto the table. They laughed even louder.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I think you drank a little bit too much.” Basil leaned in once more, kissing Henry just under his jaw quickly. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“What is else to do at boring parties with boring guests?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“This, apparently.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They looked at each other for a moment and then, with a sigh, Wotton jumped from the table. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Come then.” He tugged Hallward with him in direction of the entrance. “I don’t think anybody is going to look for us.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They left just as quickly as they appeared. Relief washed over Alan, but he felt mildly irritated, remembering his recent troubles with Dorian. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Well, at least we are not only ones sinning in this goddamned city.” He thought, listening to their steps in the hallway. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Alan buried the memory deep inside of his mind, never really thinking about what he saw, too busy with his falling out with Dorian, with music, with experiments.</p>
<p>Who could ever think he would recall it now, sitting next to his remains.</p>
<p>“I am sorry it went that way, Hallward.” He said simply, directing his words to the pile of clothes on the floor.</p>
<p>He left in a trance, desperate to be free from the smell of acid and presence of the painting, covered or not, still repulsive. But the horror of it clung to his skin, even between the safe walls of his own home. He tore his clothes away from himself with frantic movements. Everything turned into a blur; he opened bottle of wine, drinking straight from it, as he sat in bath till the water turned cold.</p>
<p>Oblivion never came but sleep did- dreams filled with nightmarish visions- but they were still better than reality.</p>
<p>The next day, he was woken by outraged gasp of his butler, who found him asleep in the bath, in freezing water, the empty bottle still in his grip. The man muttered repeatedly: “Oh my Goodness!” as he helped him dress.</p>
<p>Alan felt sick. He chewed on his breakfast without enthusiasm, not able to taste anything.</p>
<p><em>I need to held a funeral, </em>it came to his mind. <em>Someone had died and I am the only one who knows about it. </em></p>
<p>He saved two of Basil’s belongings, took it to his home, not able to bring himself to abandon it at Dorian’s hellish house and let that place swallow last memory of the painter. One of them was Basil’s glove, too thin for this weather-it looked more fit for opera, but it was old and unused, crumpled, stuck into the pocket.</p>
<p>Inside of his jacket, he found something much more meaningful: a letter. It was unsealed; not ready to send yet- or maybe it was never meant to be read. Writing on envelope simply read “<em>For Harry”</em>, the name underlined twice, drawing his attention to neat, tight letters.</p>
<p><em>Should I send it? </em>He wondered, looking for the address on the other side. It was also unfinished, just the name of the recipient written out.</p>
<p>
  <em>Lord Henry Wotton </em>
</p>
<p>Alan smiled sourly; in his mind, Wotton always looked the same, despite the passing time: slender, dark haired man, sitting cross legged in opera, clutching gloves in one hand and laughing, always laughing at something that shouldn’t be laughed at.</p>
<p>Without remorse, he opened the letter: if he were to send it, he had to know what was inside of it, wasn’t that right?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>My dearest friend!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I wondered for the longest time: should I write to you? It is always a risk with you, choosing correspondence over a visit: who knows when you are going to read it, or if you are going to do it at all. But the time decided for me; I am a busy man, I don’t have time to make appointments. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I must admit, I write with all of the bitterness you so much love to accuse me of. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I am going away- or, by the time I send this letter, I will be away already. Heading for Paris. What an irony! It’s a city much more fitting for you than me. But informing you of this is not the purpose of this letter- would you care for my travels when we haven’t seen each other for such long time? The purpose of this letter- well, there is no purpose of this letter, or at least it is not known for me. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Sometimes, Harry, I want to be angry with you. Your ideas- ideas! I wouldn’t give you privilege of calling them ideas. Your theories- those stupid, shocking words you spit out at parties- how empty they are! You keep hiding behind them, stashing them in your living room with sick amusement and I can’t be a part of it anymore, if I ever was a part of it anyway. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I know it’s not your belief, Harry, because I know you for this long. I am worried and you shall laugh at my worry, I know of it. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You see, I believe that meeting between you and Dorian corrupted you more than him. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Someone could finally live out your theories. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Lately, I remembered how I was without him- how you were without him. Our time spent at Oxford.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I loved you so, back then. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And I want to scream with inexplicable loss and hurt because it went away. For those times when I spent the night with my cheek pressed against yours, for how your bedroom in Oxford looked, always so messy, for when we kissed at that party when Dorian was away, when it was all said and done.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Your face may have not shone with the same golden beauty and youth but I loved it no less; sharpness of it was very dear to me. I wished to paint shadows appearing on it when the sun began its journey back. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I wish to say my goodbye to you, but when I hold this letter in my hands, I know that it won’t be ever be sent. </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>It was unfinished- no signature, no goodbye. Many sentences and words were crossed out and rewritten- made longer, made shorter. He stared at the paper for a moment, then put it back into the envelope, brushing his thumb over the words <em>“For Harry”</em>, suddenly reminded of how Basil’s fingers curled gently over Henry’s.</p>
<p><em>What a beautiful love letter written by a hand of a dead man, </em>Alan thought.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading, if you enjoyed this story, please leave kudos or a comment!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>